


The vicious circle turns and burns

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Implied Incest, Oral Sex, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Daughter" means nothing to Jaime, and "Myrcella" means little more.  For him, she wears the faces of the dead, the missing, the forever-lost.  And therein lies the danger.</p><p>Sansa tries to thwart disaster.  She does not entirely succeed.</p><p>Written for Porn Battle XIV.  The prompt was:  Jaime/Sansa/Myrcella, anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The vicious circle turns and burns

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "Because the Night" by Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen. This story contains explicit sexual content, but there is NO physical father/daughter incest.

A creak of the door, and every muscle in Sansa’s body stiffens.    
  
She does not sleep...she never sleeps.  She’s given up even the hope of it, accustoming herself to the long, lonely, quiet hours.  The skin beneath her eyes puffs and darkens more each day, and she feels her muscles growing sluggish and her mind turning fuzzy.  And yet there is no relief, no respite, no escape.  
  
But Myrcella no longer suffers the sleepless nights, and Sansa reminds herself to be grateful for that much.  She’d felt some guilt when she first slipped the herbs into the other girl’s tea- and yet the sweetsleep always brought little Robert such comfort...how could it be wrong, if it brought Myrcella’s night-terrors to an end?     
  
The blonde girl lies in Sansa’s arms now, their legs twined together, their icy feet pressed to each other in search of warmth.  Sansa tightens her grip on Myrcella as a figure steps across the threshold; she recognizes the gleam of gold, the weight of the footsteps, but her tension remains even as she narrows her eyes to slits.  
  
Jaime runs his left hand over Myrcella’s hair- feather-light at first, but when the girl does not wake, he grows bold, combing his fingers through her curls and letting his short fingernails rake over her scalp.  
  
She can hear his every breath, each shallower and tighter and more tremulous than the last.  His hand moves down to caress her cheek (the unmarred one; Myrcella always sleeps with her scarred flesh pressed to the pillow).  And then it trails down farther, tracing the curve of Myrcella's neck, skimming over her collarbone, shaking all the while.  
  
He jolts with surprise when she closes her hand over his; the moonlight spilling in through the casement catches in his eyes, and she can see the alarm, the shame, the desperation.  "Jaime," she whispers, and it's all that needs to be said- he does not miss the gentle caution in her tone.  Even in the dark, she can tell that his cheeks burn bright.  
  
"She's your daughter," Sansa will remind him sometimes, and he always replies with a twist of the lips and wrinkle of the nose, as if the very idea offends his sensibilities.   "Daughter" means nothing to him; he's said that much already.  And "Myrcella" means little more.   For him, she wears the faces of the dead, of the missing, of the forever-lost.  He sees his mother in her soft smile, his brother in her gnarled scars, his father in the gold-green of her eyes.    
  
But he sees her most of all, and that smarts more keenly than all the other remembrances taken together.    
  
Sansa does not scold him tonight.  Instead, she rises from the bed and slips in front of Jaime to tuck the coverlets securely around Myrcella's sleeping form before turning to him and taking his hand in both of hers.    
  
"Come."    
  
He follows her like a man entranced, a storm of bewilderment and embarrassment and longing and hunger swimming in the darkness of his pupils.  She can feel the pulse in his wrist racing, and  her own heart flutters with anticipation.    
  
She leads him down the corridor to his own chamber.  Before they even reach the door, Jaime wraps his arm around her waist and pushes her hair over one shoulder, pressing hot kisses to the nape of her neck.  A pleasurable shiver courses down her spine, and she cants her hips back, her rear making contact with his groin.  
  
(He's already fully hard, and she forces herself to swallow the bit of bile that creeps into her throat as she considers the reason.)  
  
They enter the chamber, and she bolts the door behind them.    
  
(She's glad that she thought to lock Myrcella's door before they left; it can only be opened from within.)  
  
He's even more urgent than usual tonight, and she worries for a moment that he will treat her roughly- he does from time to time, and although she understands it and encourages whatever expression he needs ( _better me than her…_ ), she does not relish the thought of waking sore and spending the entirety of tomorrow in pain.  
  
But her fears are soon assuaged by the soft, quick kisses he lavishes on her lips and cheeks and neck, his hand tracing the curve of her waist and hip all the while.  Her deft hands make quick work of their clothing; his skin burns as if racked with fever, a sharp contrast to the coolness of her own.    
  
He’s shivering already, but the trembles grow stronger when she massages her chilled palms over the hard planes of his chest.  His eyes flutter shut, and he breathes in deeply through his nose.  He wants to give in, wants to fall- she scarcely needs to push.  
  
The flagstones are ice beneath her kneecaps as she kneels at his feet.  Her hand closes around his cock- hot and cold; he shivers again....and again when she sucks the tip between her lips and flicks her tongue over the head.  She licks long, wide stripes up and down the member, her hands wandering behind to grasp his arse and pull him closer, closer.    
  
His golden hand knocks against her head and catches in her hair as he fucks her mouth.  She glances up to look upon his face- his eyes are winched tight, and he worries his lower lip between his teeth to keep from crying out.  
  
(She knows not which name he bites back...and sometimes, she knows not which of the possibilities would trouble her more.)  
  
He’s close to spending; she tastes salt on her tongue and feels his thrusts becoming less and less controlled.  And so she rises, kissing a path up his stomach and chest, arms snaking around his waist.  He leads her back toward the bed, holding her fast as she languidly suckles at his neck, her tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat.  
  
He hasn’t touched her yet, not really, but she finds herself wet all the same.  When she thinks about it, she realizes that she’s been aroused since early in the evening, when Myrcella kissed her mouth before nestling in the circle of her arms and succumbing to the sweetsleep.    
  
(The touch of a woman’s soft lips on her own brought a deluge of memories, of stolen moments in the Vale with Mya and Myranda, of smooth skin and fragranced hair and everything pretty, pretty...)  
  
Jaime lifts her and places her on the cushions of his bed- one hand scalding hot, one hand sharply cool.  She gently scrapes her fingernails down his chest, pausing to tease at his nipples as he parts her knees and slides into her with one smooth thrust.    
  
The rhythm pleases her, and she indulges in a low, throaty moan.  Jaime grunts through clenched teeth in reply- he tries so hard to keep quiet, to keep from saying what he shouldn’t, what no one need hear (not even her, not even she can bear it).  
  
And so she spares him.  She knots her fingers in his golden hair and pulls his face to hers, capturing his mouth in a kiss as his cock pulses and his seed spills inside her.  
  
He pants against her lips, sighing and groaning and shaping silent words...silent names....  
  
She kisses him until her air supply wanes, kisses him until her head feels airy and her eyes clouded, until the warm pressure pushes at her temples and she swoons into the pillows.  
  
They part, the scant distance between them feeling wide as a canyon,  and she breathes again.    
  



End file.
